Matthieu Williams: L'espion
by 05rei14
Summary: AU  It was all Alfred's fault, dragging him into this mess... College-boy Matthew Williams never expected to be thrust into the mafia world of double entendres. Finally, it's his first task away from the desk-job, but things might not go very smoothly-
1. Preliminary Hearings

_**Matthieu Williams: L**_'_**espion**_

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><p><strong>Title: <strong>Matthieu Williams: L'espion  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> Axis Powers Hetalia  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Various Characters, [_Human-Verse_]  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13+ | May be adjusted in the future, maybe?  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Not in this chapter, at least.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>[AU] It was all Alfred's fault, really, dragging him into this mess, which led to another mess, and then another mess from that one! Matthew Williams never expected to be thrust into the underground world, a world filled with lies, deception, death, and mystery—the mafia; however, who's to say that he's scared at all? It's a new adventure, and there's that slight possibility of—well, maybe he _is_ slightly afraid after all. In this situation, maybe the saying still stands strong in the end: "once you're in, you can never get out." Though, there's no harm in trying, right? **  
><strong>**Author's Note from Aurrei: **Really, I don't know where I'm going with this story, but I hope you guys like it—the idea actually came from a book that my brother's reading: something with spies and whatnot. I hope that you all enjoy my first story here on Fanfiction.

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><p><em><strong>Preliminary Hearings | <strong>_"It's not just a desk job…"

- New York, New York

Well, you could say that he sort of hated his job—mainly because of the fact that it kind of involved working with those dangerous types of people that you thought you'd only see in movies, but yet, he found himself liking it in that odd, sort-of-twisted way that was completely and utterly—the blonde Canadian bit the end of his pencil, trying to solve the math problem in front of him whilst continuing his inner monologue—_him_. Really, he wouldn't have signed up for that first assignment had not Alfred persuaded him into joining the exuberant blonde in completing _that_ odd task. He wouldn't have gotten himself into _that world _in the first place, given that the overly-excited American hadn't dragged him in that scheme that the both of them both knew just wouldn't work. It was crazy, all of it was insane; bollocks; it was like Alfred's spring fever for _disaster._

Being a part of World Industries certainly did not put him at ease every second of the day; rather, it made the hairs on the back of his neck constantly stand on edge! He, Matthew Williams, was most certainly _not _suited for working for a branch of the mafia world—as an informant nonetheless! It was crazy, absolutely crazy. Well, at least there were some benefits that could've balanced everything out, right?

"_Matthieu?_" queried a voice from behind him. Turning around in his chair, the college student looked up at the Frenchman standing behind his chair, hands tucked elegantly into the pockets of his expensive-looking coat, stubble gracing his chin, blue eyes twinkling in the lights of the office building. And, oh, you could just _tell _from one glance he was _French_.

"_Oui, _François_? _D-Did you need anything?" the _Québécois _young man replied timidly, closing the binder containing his college homework—he still had to finish that English essay!

Handing him a manila folder, Francis Bonnefoy, otherwise known as François, smiled at his young pupil, ruffling his soft, blonde hair fondly before explaining the contents of the heavy object: "Here's your—what is it, third?—assignment. We need information on the whereabouts of the Vargas brothers."

"Vargas brothers? Weren't they in Spain just a few days ago?"

"They were, yes, but apparently they're gone."

"Gone? Just like that?"

"_Oui. _Arthur would like the information by this afternoon, _s'il tu plait__._"

And just like that, the Parisian was gone, humming the tune to some French folk song as he made his way towards his office with such elegance that one would think that he were royalty or something. Sighing, the violet-eyed Canadian opened the file and took out the necessary documents: cell phone numbers, addresses, maps, and other things that he thought he might need before going on an intensive web search and phone-call mania. "Why does Mister Kirkland always put all of this work on me?"—glancing at a framed portrait resting on the side of his desk, he sighed—"Alfred can also do the work, right?"

But he was sort of thankful, having a job in the first place and all—some people weren't even granted the thought of being able to work for one's own keep, and as an _informant? _That was completely outrageous; there were people out there who were ignorant of the government's doings, the doings of their neighbors, the doings of their family—the actions that groups of people committed in their lives that influenced their tomorrow in ways that might not be entirely beneficial. It was nice, knowing what exactly was going on instead of relying on biased news sources and the like.

Matthew also liked learning new things; but what he didn't know was that several of the higher-ups in the organization liked the fact that he took on jobs without questioning them at all—he was too easy to bring into their plot, too trusting of his employer, especially in a field such as working in the underground. _Well, _the man thought to himself, nibbling once more on the end of his pencil as he looked through the phone numbers, trying to correlate them with the ones already on his records, _at least it's only a desk job—I couldn't handle killing somebody._

_Luckily it's only just research about groups of people—that much I can handle. _

Suddenly cut out of his thoughts by the phone ringing, he shook his head, picking up the plastic item and pressing it to his ear. "'Allo?"

"_Hey, Matt, it's me, Al. Listen, do you have that file about Luddy?_"

Bringing up the information on his computer, he quickly connected the phone to the device, tracing the call; he copied the coordinates that appeared on the screen, entering them into the company software. "What information did you need, eh?" His hands were poised readily at the keyboard, itching to type the information that his brother desired.

"_Whereabouts, information regarding his base_"—the American on the other side of the line seemed to have paused, thinking about what else he could say; Matthew could imagine him scratching his head or adjusting his glasses, or maybe tapping his temple with his eyes closed in deep thought; his mental picture of his older brother was extremely childish, but adorable in that Alfred-esque way—"_I dunno. Can you just send stuff that'll help me infiltrate?_"

"I've sent you a package onto your mobile—there's also a map there if you need it." He smiled, picturing the look on Alfred's face after realizing that he was working so quickly. _He'd probably be smiling in that goofy way. _There was a muttered thank you on the other side of the line before a grunt of confirmation that the information was sent. "Be safe, Al!"

Then the line went dead.

It's been awhile since he'd last seen his brother—four months, the other side of his mind offered. Yeah, it's been four months since he'd last seen him. Frowning, the college student continued to type at the computer; his hands were aching; his headache was growing. _Why can't I just find_—a little box popped up on the corner of the screen, one with… a small tomato on it? Staring at the image bouncing in the corner for a few seconds, the hockey-loving young man clicked the jumping chat notification, raising an eyebrow at the message that popped up long with a large image of what looked like a crime scene.

- - - (Guest, AnCa) _I'd like information regarding this photo, please. _[21:35:15]  
>- - - (Guest, AnCa) <em>I've already contacted Mister Kirkland regarding this matter. <em>[21:35:36]

Frowning, Matthew quickly typed in a message to his boss, wondering whether or not their latest "customer" was either lying or telling him the truth—you never really knew, especially though messages sent on the internet:

- - - (MaWi) _Sir, I've received a message from somebody: [Guest, AnCa]. Did they contact you regarding a crime-scene photo? _[21:36:02]  
>- - - (ArKi) <em>Yes, they've contacted me. Please give them all desired information. <em>[21:36:27]  
>- - - (ArKi) <em>On second thought, don't give them any phone numbers, Mattie. <em>[21:36:39]

Quickly typing a thank you to his British boss, he went back to the open window with the pictures and "Guest, AnCa"—

- - - (MaWi) _Thank you for contacting World Industries, AnCa. What information would you like regarding this photo? _[21:37:01]  
>- - - (Guest, AnCa) <em>Those involved, the crime, and the reason for it, por favor. <em>[21:37:35]_  
><em>- - - (MaWi) _When would you like the information by? _[21:37:41]

And at that moment, he already had the photo being scanned through their system, trying to find a match that contained the file with all the information that their servers had. Then he would look in the folders in his filing cabinet for any other information that the other man might need. _But no phone numbers, _he reminded himself sternly, remembering Mister Kirkland's instruction.

It was a tough job that required knowledge of how to use a computer; well, maybe it wasn't so difficult, but it was a still interesting what pictures or documents you got handed to you.

- - - (Guest, AnCa) _As soon as possible._ [21:37:44]

However, their messaging system was unique: it was encrypted with impossible-to-crack security software that several people in another department cooked up several years ago. And with the technology nowadays, it was easier to send documents than from the past. A simple click here and then another click there could allow a person to send several gigabytes of information, packets and packets of papers, to another person halfway across the globe in a matter of only several minutes—depending on nothing on internet speeds and how busy the server was.

- - - (MaWi) _I have all of that information here. Would you like me to send it to you via messenger?_ [21:37:50]  
>- - - (Guest, AnCa) <em>In person is fine.<em>[21:37:52]

_In person_, Matthew echoed in his head, staring at the blinking message on the screen. He's never done an in person delivery before; people would usually ask for him to send the information online because it was easier. Then he could spend the rest of the night working on his college assignments, and information gathering assignments that Francis would give him occasionally. In person was definitely _not _in his comfort zone!

The image of a fairy popped up on his screen: Mister Arthur Kirkland.

- - - (ArKi) _Mattie, are you sending him the information? _[ 21:38:10]  
>- - - (MaWi) <em>He wants me to give it to him in person. <em>[21:38:11]  
>- - - (ArKi) <em>Bloody hell. Mattie, just give it to him. <em>[21:38:12]

Mister Kirkland had confidence in him to give "Guest , AnCa" the information. He was confident he could do it—he wanted him to ditch the desk job to deliver the information. That little bit of knowledge that somebody trusted him to do something made Matthew Williams absolutely giddy, his heart beating just a bit faster, his clothes slightly more comfortable, the office chair suddenly seeming like a fun, spinning toy that he could play around in all day; happy, he felt happy. Somebody _trusted _him to do something!

- - - (MaWi) _Do you have a meeting place? _[21:38:14]  
>- - - (Guest, AnCa) <em>I have sent you the desired coordinates for our meeting two days from now. Thank you, MaWi. <em>

Looking up the coordinates on a map, the Canadian merely stared at his computer with wide eyes. _I'm ditching the desk job_, he thought to himself, gritting his teeth, trying to prevent himself from cracking a small, shy smile. _I'm going to Europe!_

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><p>- At an Unknown Location<p>

"Are all the plans set?"

"_Si, _he'll be flying in by tomorrow afternoon."

"Perfect."

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><p><strong>Ending Author's Note: <strong>Well, I hope that you guys liked it-I don't think that I've nailed all of the personalities of the people in Hetalia quite yet, so please point out where I happen to have a character out of, well, character. Anyways, I hoped that you guys enjoyed that, and please review with your comments if you have any!


	2. Task oo1, Vargas Brother

_**Matthieu Williams: L**_'_**espion**_

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><p><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Not in this chapter.**  
><strong>**Author's Note from Aurrei: **Thank you to Stripes93 and KitakLaw for their reviews last chapter—I didn't think that people would actually, well, review on this. And to Stripes, I'm glad that you think that I've captured the essence that is Matthew-it was a bit relieving to read that you thought so. And to Kitak, yes, it also has been in my headcannon for awhile-along with the rest of the other nations, h-haha. Anyways, here's the next installment to _Matthieu Williams: L'espion_.

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><p><em><strong>Task oo1 | <strong>_"Vargas Brother"

- Rome, Italy

When he exited the plane, he was tired, just absolutely exhausted from that eight-hour plane flight. (But it hasn't been the longest flight he's been on, so maybe it wasn't that bad at all—but still, sitting behind a man who just _insisted _on reclining his chair all the way back for the entire trip isn't exactly pleasant.) Adjusting the messenger bag hanging from his right shoulder as one would do with a sports duffel bag, the annoyed, still-groggy-from-that-last-nap young man made his way towards the baggage claim, turning on his phone to see if he missed any messages. _Ah, only one, _he thought to himself.

Turning his head to look around at his surroundings, hair slightly on edge, the violet-eyed foreigner looked around at the different people there in Rome's Fiumicino Airport—he stuck out in the crowd as a tourist! Well, unless you counted the fact that he was wearing a suit and had a business messenger bag. He still didn't feel entirely _hidden _in the crowd; yet, nobody seemed to notice him, bumping shoulders here and there, stepping on his feet sometimes, and looking straight at him as if he didn't exist. It was quite terrifying! "Ah, here it is, eh," Matthew muttered to himself, picking up his suitcase and opening the new message on his phone:

- - - **Alfred: **thnks 4 the info. i heard u r in europe?  
>- - - <strong>Matthew: <strong>yeah, where r u, eh?  
>- - - <strong>Alfred: <strong>home. c u when u get back. btw, tell me when u get 2 ur hotel.

Frowning, Matthew got onto the waiting car that took him to his hotel. He was kind of angry that Alfred didn't talk to him for a bit longer; he was his only "conversational" partner so far here for his first time out of North America. Shaking off that thought, the man shrugged, tucking his phone into one of his pockets, letting his eyes drift shut for a small nap—it couldn't hurt to catch up on those z's, eh? Though before slipping into his slumber, he made sure to not rest his head on the other man sitting beside him; that would have been completely embarrassing!

But there was a guy smirking at him through the car's rear-view mirror: a man with a persistent hair curl that just wouldn't stay down, green eyes with the slightest hint of brown swirled in, and a face that the World Industries employee _should have _recognized from just one glance had he not been exhausted from his flight.

He was Romano Vargas—the man that Matthew was supposed to be tracking down for an unknown customer.

"_Oi, _are you sure it's him?"

"_Por supuesto! _He does look like Alfred," the Spaniard replied with a hearty laugh, glancing back at the blonde resting his head against the window, his lips slightly parted. Bringing out a small syringe, he brought it to the other man's arm, taking a deep breath before piercing the pale surface, injecting the clear contents into his arm. The blonde college boy shook back and forth for a second before relaxing, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Lovi, was this tested yet?"

"Of course it is, tomato bastard," the Italian at the wheel growled; the car was driving at extremely fast speeds, dodging passing cars, barely grazing the sidewalk edge in some places. To the outsider, one would instantly know that the man driving just wasn't supposed to be there. Romano glanced at the rear-view mirror to take a peek at the two men sitting in the back seat. _Good, the drug's effects were coming on._

Quickly arriving at their destination, he slammed on the brakes, everything in the small car jolting forwards except for the Italian at the steering wheel. Tossing his keys at the butler waiting in front of the car, he led the way into the building tucked away in the San Lorenzo neighborhood of Nomentano, inputting his information into the security keypad by several plants.

And in his dream, even Matthew sensed that something was wrong.

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><p>- New York, New York<p>

Alfred F. Jones was one of the best agents of World Industries; he was strong, smarter (when he wanted to be), and sensible (at times). So when he spoke of having a brother that was around his age, Arthur Kirkland grinned—perhaps he would get another agent on the field? He could use a duo, two men with exceptional fighting ability enough to go against twenty or so men, smooth-talkers who knew exactly how to get information out of people, and handsome to boot! It was all too good to be true! So the man set up a meeting with, who he imagined to be, a college graduate fit to enter the Navy Seals, crossing his fingers that he'd be almost-superhuman like Alfred.

Well, without some of his more "childish" traits.

So the British man was surprised when his potential employee seemed to have disappeared upon the first interview, hiding amongst everything in the room with amazing stealth; it was quite an amazing feat, being that there was only a small table and four chairs in almost-empty room. Oh, there was also a broken desk lamp with a faulty bulb. _Most peculiar, _the Englishman thought to himself, taking his designated seat. And just like that, there was a small glint in the corner of his eye; turning his head to the left, he saw it: the impression of an average-looking kid with soft golden locks and thin-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

The kid had looked like Alfred, just more… more…

"H-Hello, sir. My name is M-Matthew Williams—my brother, umm, called me here t-today?" the young man said with a faint French accent. Arthur raised an eyebrow: _scratch that, a Québécois accent. _The young man scratched his head, sitting down across from him. "A-Am I in trouble?"

He was just more _feminine. _

So he had placed him with a desk job at first, waiting for the moment when he would put him out on the field to help him gather information. He found that the boy liked hockey, and was better at it than his American counterpart; the sport was the only thing that _really _got the timid boy more competitive, brash, and louder. He was also pretty good at being a sniper.

When he got a request to travel abroad to deliver some information, the World Industries president was feeling _exceptionally _giddy. If the Canadian lad was able to finish the easy, out-of-office, starter mission with ease, then he might be willing to move from the desk work to actually gathering information out in the open; he'd be his surviving spy that he'd plant into corporations and the like. Arthur Kirkland smirked to himself, taking a sip of his afternoon tea: _his idea was absolutely brilliant. _

"What do you think of _Matthieu, mon lap_—_"_

"Don't call me that, you bloody frog!" he snarled, fuming at the Frenchman leaning with one arm against his office door. There was a rose dangling from his fingertips as he brought it up to his nose to take a whiff at it. The shaggy-haired blonde shook his head, ridding himself as his anger—temporarily at least; it was impossible to fully remain at peace with the lecherous Parisian; Arthur cleared his throat. "He has potential."

Chuckling, Francis pushed himself off the rosewood door, sitting across from his British friend in one of the leather armchairs of his office; his pressed white slacks crinkled a bit under his weight, and he moved his arm so he could delicately rest his chin against an upturned palm. _Dainty as usual, _Arthur thought to himself inwardly. "Anything else?" the other man hummed, his light, sky-blue eyes twinkling in that manner they always did.

"What, do you want a case file?"

"_Mais oui, _I would like to look over something."

"Pray tell why?"

"According to what I've heard from a friend of mine"—he placed his rose on the desk in front of him, eyes narrowing slightly—"he has connections to Kumajirou."

_Now, that was interesting._

Pressing a button on his phone, Arthur's secretary quickly answered for him to say if he needed anything. He frowned, muttering something into the speaker of his desk phone: "Yes, I'd love another cup of tea; 'Chelles, could you tell Kiku to come to my office?"

Raising an eyebrow, Francis queried, "What are you doing, _monsieur?_"

Clicking his tongue, he placed his teacup back on the platter, scooting it towards the corner of his desk towards the vase of flowers and some unfinished paperwork. This was a most peculiar situation, his newest recruit knowing _him_, the infamous man known only as "Kumajirou." The emerald-eyed boss opened his desk, taking out a few pens, legal pads, and a manila folder, pressing a post-it to the front and quickly scribbling down a message. "I'd like to check up on the lad before proceeding further," he answered honestly. Did that Spaniard know about his employee's connection to that man?

And with a knock at his door, both men got up from their seats and headed towards another department of the World Industries building.

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><p>- Rome, Italy<p>

The first thing he heard upon opening his eyes was not exactly what he expected: "_Ciao, Signore Williams._" Looking up groggily at the dull, green-eyed Italian, Matthew sat up straight and looked around the room; _this definitely isn't a hotel room, where am I—_

The man's footsteps caught off his thoughts: polished, pointed leather shoes that clacked against the bright marble of the building. Romano Vargas was trying his absolute best to be polite, yet threatening at the same time; however, the ditsy nature of the violet-eyed American agent sitting before him was beginning to annoy him. "You're currently in one of my houses"—_now was the best time to cut to the chase_—"I'd like you to tell me where the information is."

Looking into the eyes of the brown-haired man, the _Canadian _froze, his shoulders turning rigid. It was impossible: the man, the stealthy Italian mafia head, the man who was almost _always _untraceable, was standing right in front of him; in the flesh; he was asking him a question; the man was looking at him straight into the eye. And only one thought flew through his groggy, dazed mind—_this man is scary. _

And because of that, he began stuttering in his native language, French: "_D-Désolé, ehm, je ne sais pas où e-est-il, monsieur._"

Romano raised an eyebrow, looking straight into the other man's dodgy eyes, thinking to himself: _so the kid's French—that tomato bastard, giving me wrong information; the man they were after was American. _

Matthew was muttering incoherent phrases under his breath, phrases that weren't English—or Italian for that matter. The mafia boss leaned closer, giving the young—now recognized as a—Canadian man a second look. _Aspetta—_he blinked—_he does look like Alfred Jones. _"_Oi_, where's your _fratello_?" Romano gave him a one-sided smirk, one corner of his lip turning upwards, waiting for what would come out of the blonde's mouth; he was hoping that the truth-serum would actually work. "You can't tell lies; we've injected a drug into you." Romano tapped his toe against the floor, grinning with glee.

_I have to lie_, Matthew thought to himself. "I-I don't know whe—" The blonde coughed, realizing that his arms were bound to the chair handles when he tried to raise them to cover his mouth; his chest hurt; his head hurt. Everything was spinning, too bright for comfort, too loud for his tastes; he felt like his senses were too sensitive—too magnified. And the rest came out like that sort of word-vomit that he remembered seeing in one of those movies that Alfred had him watch with him when they were younger, vomit that he _wished _he didn't say: "East Coast of the United States!"

Eyes widening, absolutely petrified that he disclosed such information to a member of one of the elite members, one of the heads of the Italian underground. _Mister Arthur will murder me! _Romano grinned menacingly. "Where is he, exactly, _signore_?_" _

"_Je ne sais pas! _I don't know exactly"—and he felt that burning in his chest once more, the words flowing out of his mouth like droplets from a leaky faucet, words that were meant to be kept with utmost secrecy—"Washington D.C., probably? M-Maybe New York?"

Matthew shut his eyes tightly, biting his lip so it would stay shut; suddenly, a thought of wisdom came to his attention, a thought of hope from his rational, calm mind that people never really took note of—the part of his mind that he prized his entire being on. _He has injected a "truth serum" into you, the active ingredients being sedatives that alter higher cognitive functions, _the rational side of his mind supplied. _It doesn't necessarily work; it only increases talking, and functions on the belief that the subject knows that he can only tell truths—lies, tell him lies, Mattie, you can do it, you can tell lies. _

It was at that moment where that bit in him, that part that Arthur Kirkland found so intriguing, came to life—his potential for being an intelligence specialist that could be planted in different organizations to gather information with a level head, perhaps even the head of the Intelligence Deparment of World Industries. What Matthew Williams didn't know was that he was in the company _deeper _than he thought that he was; he barely even know _who _he was working for to begin with.

Though, the truths to these facts were hidden, shrouded by his ignorance of everything.

"Where in New York?"

And, unknowingly, he was caught up in it all, tied to the company tighter than he'd ever imagine; it was such dramatic irony, an example that would've had his English teacher smiling—had he ever have to write an essay about his job for that class.

"I-I don't know! I-I think he's somewhere in New York, New York!" _But I do know, _Matthew told himself, sighing in relief at being able to pull a successful lie._ He's farther than that, he's in Washington D.C._

"Thank you for that information," Romano smirked. "Now, moving onto another bit of business—"

"_Fratello! _I'm back home from Germany, ve~!"

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><p>- New York, New York<p>

"What do you think, _Kirkland-san_?"

"He's absolutely brill."

"_Oui. C'est un garçon intelligent, Matthieu."_

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><p><strong>Ending Author's Note: <strong>Ah, I hope that you also liked this chapter! And, please review with your comments-i-if you want to, of course. Oh yeah! Since I have a backlog of chapters that I've already written, I was hoping to post a chapter once a week, perhaps? U-Umm, just a head's up.


	3. Task oo2, World Industries

_**Matthieu Williams: L**_'_**espion**_

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><p><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13+  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> There's swearing in this chapter—dropping of the F-bomb happens a few times.  
><strong>Author's Note from Aurrei: <strong>Thank you for your reviews last chapter: KitakLaw, Stripes93, Foxx-chan1324, SocklessxinxSeattle, and Verschwinden! With the truth serum, I encountered an interesting article that was flying through my Facebook feed, and it was related to this story, so-I thought it would be good to include, I guess? Also! If you guys have any random facts about what countries are notable for, then, d-don't hesitate to tell me! (I'm trying to remember this one thing relating to cars that I'd like to include, and I can't recall exactly what it is... a-aha.) I'm overjoyed that you all are enjoying this experiment of mine thus far, so, now I present you with the third chapter; finally, you guys get to see Alfred!

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><p><em><strong>Task oo2 | <strong>_"World Industries"

- Washington D.C.

Alfred F. Jones yawned, tossing his jacket onto the couch in the living room of his Washington D.C. home tucked in the woods outside of the busy capital city of the United States; he was tired from his latest assignment: delivering information to the Russian Branch and infiltrating the German Branch—well, the latter was for kicks and giggles. (_And the look on Luddy's face, _he grinned, snickering to himself at the memory of the uptight German's face upon seeing what he did to the office.) Plopping down on the brown leather, the American snatched one of the throw pillows into his grasp, placing it under his head before putting his laptop on his lap, finding the need to read up on the latest news. The image of a fairy appeared right as he opened his laptop; the blonde groaned, pouting childishly and ignoring the bouncing icon.

So he browsed the "Most Popular" section on Yahoo! News, ignoring the topics that he already knew of through his brother's daily emails to agents who were on the job. He placed his thin-framed glasses on the floor beside him. _Well, the turned out to be almost all of the topics on the webpage, _Alfred thought to himself, closing the window and placing his laptop, still open, onto the coffee table, throwing an arm across his eyes to try and block out any light coming from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

It was at that moment his phone just _fucking decided _to start ringing with that _stupid _ringtone—

"What's up?" he groaned into the piece of plastic, tossing on his glasses. Usually, he was a morning person—or something along those lines. Usually, he was always quite happy and perky, a trait that contrasted Mattie's soft and quiet aura.

"_Why don't you bloody answer your messages so you can see 'what's up', you yank?" _

"Artie, I'm fucking _tired_. Can't it wait until tomorrow?" he whined into the phone, rolling over a bit on the couch so he was lying on his stomach, his cheek against the soft pillow. There was the tsk'ing sound heard from the other end. The blonde pouted, burrowing his face into the pillow, a portion of his hair sticking up persistently. "I wanna rest though—it's seven in the morning!"

But his voice came out muffled into the receiver.

Arthur sighed, signing his name on the paperwork he was working on. "I am fully aware of the hour, but your brother's being interrogated in Italy at one in the afternoon, Jones." Really, one of his best agents was a child, an absolute little kid—he would have been fired had it not been for his ability to get things done and that little string of attachment he had of the tall, younger man.

Thud!

"W-Wait, what happened to Mattie?" _Last time I talked to him, he was alright and at the airport!_

"_He's in Italy on an assignment for me, and if you had answered your bloody message—_"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he replied into the phone, sitting up straight and pulling his laptop to his lap once more, hugging his phone between his ear and shoulder. "What did 'ya say about interrogations?"

"_Your brother is currently with Romano Vargas and—" _

_Shit. Shit. Shit—_Alfred ended the call, quickly accessing his work computer remotely from his laptop, easily getting into his brother's files; _Vargas, _he thought to himself, searching through the long list of different directories, _Vargas, Vargas, Varga—there it is! _He opened the folder, pressing a key here and a key there, and finally slamming his finger on the "enter" key. His phone beeped, having received a new message. And a few minutes later, the formerly-exhausted American was out the door, bomber jacket covering his back, glasses firmly in place, and ready for action to act as back up for his brother—

_Oh! There's a McDonalds! _He grinned, pulling his car into the drive-through of the establishment, wondering what to order with a finger on his chin.

It was a treat for himself; a treat for surviving the burger-less airplane food that plagued his flights. With the same giddiness as a child, he looked up at the man taking his order from the window with that one-hundred-watt smile: "I'll have a 'Big Mac'—oh! Make that the combo meal, please!"

Really, he was _the_ model hero—despite what Artie said on a daily basis.

* * *

><p><em>- Rome, Italy<em>

"F-Feli!" gasped the confused, emerald-eyed Italian, staring at the carefree young man that stepped through the doors wearing a slightly-unbuttoned white shirt and plain slacks. Somehow, Matthew was reminded of Francis; _maybe it's because this guy seems like an_—he thought about what word to use, finally deciding with a small smile—_artist like him. _"I-I thought you'd be in Germany for another two weeks!" The bound Canadian merely stared at the young man, resisting the urge to quirk an eyebrow; _Romano's demeanor completely changed._

"_Ve~_ And who is this man right here?" The childish boy came up to him, frowning at his bound arms; he noticed a servant passing through the hallway. "_Oi! _Could you help _Signore… Signore…_" His eyes looked straight at him, eyebrows knotted together, mind deep in his thoughts. "_Signore Alfred?_" Then suddenly, the Canadian was suddenly more scared of the not-so-childish-Italian man standing in front of him beside his twin, his hands deep in his pockets as he looked on with bright brown eyes into his—the college-student resisted the urge to show how _scared _he was; this guy was practically staring into his soul!

What did Al even _do _to provoke the two of the most _powerful_ men in the underground?

And a few minutes later, after some frantic explaining and convincing, he was untied and sitting at a large table with his briefcase in front of him and a green-eyed Spaniard named Antonio Carriedo sitting to his right—it was the man who he was chatting with several days ago. (Actually, the only reason that they let him go was because—even though he was an _informant _for god's sakes—he barely knew a thing that could be of use to them.)

Matthew gulped, his eyes shifting back and forth between the slightly-tan faces all directing serious expressions towards _him_. He sighed, opening the briefcase and taking out several manila folders; this was exactly what he wasn't looking forward to—_talking like this is frightening, I'd much rather talk online or something. _"What information would you like regarding"—he held up a five-by-seven inch photograph to the group—"this photo, eh?" _M-Maybe I'm being too forward this time in asking?_

There was a small chuckle from beside him. "Haha! You guys are scaring the adorable Canadian," chuckled the Spaniard, taking a sip from his glass then taking a bite of his pasta, stuffing a large chunk of a tomato into his mouth daintily.

Yes, this was going to be a long night. "M-Maple," he stuttered under his breath as he took out the documents the other men were mentioning silently and efficiently, making sure not to have any phone numbers on any of the papers, unaware of the fact that his absolute silence and concentration was beginning to make him blend in with everything, so to speak. _Okay, I need this one, and this one, and these papers…_

The other three men blinked.

"_Merda!_ Where'd he go? what did you do, tomato bastard?" swore Romano Vargas.

"Ve~ Maybe he'll come back for pasta?"

Yes, a _very _long night.

* * *

><p><em>- New York, New York<em>

The caterpillar-browed Englishman typed at his computer, a slim Jawbone Bluetooth on his ear; _he disappeared, _he thought to himself, watching the hidden camera that they had tucked in on the edge of his subordinate's briefcase. "You really think he has potential, Kirkland-san?" asked the shorter Japanese man sitting on his floor cushion playing a video game of some sort. "The Canadian isn't very"—he paused his video game, looking up from the floor at Arthur with his regular, stoic expression—"spy-like, so to speak? But his older brother _is _one of our best agents, so, maybe?"

And so, he turned back to his game, taking a break from his programing work.

"_Non, je crois que Matthieu est un bon espion,_" replied his long-time French accomplice as he lounged in the plush sofa in the room they were in, staring out the window with an unreadable expression—at least to Arthur. "He just needs to embrace that side of him, _oui?_"

Arthur Kirkland frowned; they were running a delicate operation at World Industries. If the boy, Matthew Williams, turned out to not be suited for the field job and they ended up sending him to some location, then that could spill big trouble; their missions needed to be clean, quick, and inconspicuous. Sure, he posed promise in the training camp, but if he failed even _this _assignment, Arthur didn't want to have to send somebody in to bloody clean up afterwards—somebody that _wasn't _himself, at least; he was tired from fighting in his youth and preferred to send peopleinstead of himself. (_Francis doesn't really like fighting either, _Arthur thought to himself with a glance at the Parisian. He frowned. _But if it meant he could mingle with people—ladies, to be precise—then by all means then__._)

And despite what the younger members believed, there was a lot more to World Industries than what they thought—in terms of the underground world, they were neutral, providing information to anybody who could afford it. They also catered to their politicians, the average, everyday citizen, and other people as well. And they didn't just provide information;the industry president smiled a small, barely-there smile to himself, scribbling down his signature for the fiftieth time that morning. They had people in different careers: teachers, researchers, assassins, shop clerks, etc. World Industries was so much more than an information gatherer like some of their employees thought, oh, they were _more _than that—they had a larger side that only a selective few knew about, a side that helped the world move forward instead of staying stagnant, a side that was completely obvious yet unable to figure out unless you connected the dots correctly.

In essence, World Industries was the bridge between every possible secret in the world.

"And life goes on," he muttered under his breath, finishing the last of his paperwork for the day, picking up the latest information bulletin; upon noticing a small line of important information, he froze. _Blimey. _

"Kiku, could you route me to the German branch?" The Japanese man quickly muttered a reply in his native language, typing at the laptop sitting on the floor beside him with one hand as he continued to play his game with a focused expression. With the sight of the two brothers arguing, he frowned as he picked up the assignment list, quickly garnering their attention by clearing his throat.

"Mister Kirkland, sir!" saluted the serious branch head, standing stiff in front of the camera in his uniform. The albino standing behind his blonde brother smirked, waving at the camera to Arthur.

"I need you to gen up about every connection we have in Italy and neighboring regions as soon as possible!" He cut the line quickly, standing from his chair and walking over to his bookshelf, pulling out several books. "Kiku, I'm afraid that I have to send you into the field; you too, Francis."

The other blonde in the room hummed, standing up from his chair and setting the book in his hand on the side table. "Hmm? _Pourquoi_?" The Japanese man had already left with a bow, going off to change into his attire and pick out which weapons he would bring along for his new assignment.

"It seems that—in the first time in ages—somebody has let a nasty mole into the system."

Maybe Matthew's time as a field agent would start sooner than expected.

* * *

><p>When he arrived in New York to get his plane ticket, amongst some other things, it was more chaotic than usual: papers flying everywhere as people sprinted through the hallways with large, white stacks; coffee stains staining the carpet in several places from those rushing through or from being bumped several times; the intercom barking out orders in several departments loudly; and the main screens with the assignment lists flashing lines of text faster than people could read them. Alfred F. Jones walked up to the secretary's office, hands stuffed in his trusty bomber jacket, reflective sunglasses covering his eyes; things just seemed to clear out of his way, a path leading him to the staircase that would have him in contact with—<p>

"Wassup, 'Chelles," he smiled at the brown-haired woman sitting behind her desk, leg crossed over the other, hair pulled into a bun of sorts to look professional—though, Artie let her keep the red ribbon in her hair. "Could 'ya get me a ticket to Rome?"

The island girl smiled up at him, setting her pen down to turn towards the computer, her chair scratching against the plastic matt underneath; Alfred sat across from her in one of the leather chairs, tapping his fingers against it. "Did you hear about the news?"

He raised an eyebrow: "What news?" _Maybe that's what's causing all of the messy stuff downstairs?_

"There's a mole in the system!" she gasped, surprised that he didn't have a clue about what was going on. The secretary, only known as Michelle to her coworkers, simply stared at World Industries' top agent, she scratched her temple. "Besides, why are you going to Rome? Are you"—she grinned slyly, chuckling to herself—"checking on Mattie? I'm sure he's fine, you know; besides—"

"I'm not checking on him!" interjected Alfred, frowning as he stuffed the ticket in his inside pocket, getting up to walk out of her office. "Besides, I, ahh, have some business there anyways." He winked, shooting an imaginary gun as he reached the doorframe. "And if you'd like to have some dinner when the hero gets back, I'm free~"

"_Goodbye, _Alfred!" she yelled after him, rolling her eyes as she turned back to her paperwork; she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, signing her name after documents and setting some aside to hand to Arthur later—at least, when he wasn't stressing out over this fiasco.

* * *

><p>"Sir, what do you plan to do next?"<p>

"We just have to wait until that one kid—"

"Matthew Williams."

"—yes, that one kid is done with his role; then we move our pawn forward."

* * *

><p><strong>Ending Author's Note: <strong>Well, I hope you guys liked that part... I'm sorry for the swearing bit in the beginning though! I-If you'd like to, please review with your comments! (I've also turned on Anonymous Reviews, s-so, if you don't have an account, and you'd like to leave something, then by all means!)


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